


In for Four, Out for Eight

by WyrmDisco



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Lungs are just pockets where friends go, Other, Side mission setting but I suppose it's vague enough that it's canon compliant, Spoilers Partizan 15, dont worry about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27861553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyrmDisco/pseuds/WyrmDisco
Summary: Broun and Valence go undercover to steal some documents, but Valence's cover is blown. Broun helps them hide.(Rated T for cussing but otherwise could be rated G)
Relationships: Kal'mera Broun/Valence
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	In for Four, Out for Eight

It had all gone to shit.

Of course it had.

It was a simple mission, really- infiltrate the banquet, steal the document, get out before they were noticed. They had a route, they had insider info, they had a getaway car. Valence was vacuumed carefully into an unassuming waif of a new body- wolf mask tucked away carefully at home and replaced with, by their insistence, a husky mask. They even had backstories for their disguises- for god’s sake! But. But I guess that’s where it had gone wrong, in the first place.

With Valence- Tom Schreffler, meek and unassuming Columnar textile artist, attending the banquet to meet potential commissioners- had been recognized by some ex-OriCom wannabe-bigwig that had shouted, “HEY! THIEF!” when, honestly, they hadn’t even stolen anything yet. What a guy.

So that’s when Broun- De’Ante Williamson-Mello, Apostolissian investor as difficult to impress as they are rich- wrapped their hand around a shaky robot body and dragged them around the corner and out of the hall, their capes fluttering behind them.

Blessedly, every elaborate mansion always came with thin little corners to origami fold yourself into. The architects knew well in advance that there needed to be places to conduct covert dealings on the low-low. The first one is where they argue about what to do with Valence’s disguise-body.

“Listen,” Broun said, already undoing the buckles and clasps that held Valence’s dresses together, “I know you’re going to argue with me, but this body isn’t worth it. Just ditch it. We have to run and my cover isn’t blown yet.”

Valence turns about in the quickly-pooling sheets of fabric at their feet and says, “Alright.” 

Broun laughs. “Good-” they, between them, finish taking the dresses apart enough to access the central chamber where Valence’s actual body floats- opalescent and viscous. “Good, don’t fucking argue with me right now.”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

“Good, dont!”

“I’m not.” Valence replies calmly, and floats out of the body. Broun detaches the limbs and tucks them inside the chamber Valence had occupied. It is, now, altogether the size of a wealthy man’s bread box. _Perfect._

_What’s perfect?_ Valence asks. 

“Shit, I-” Broun’s hands stall briefly as they shove the bread box body behind a berry bush. “We should have been doing that the whole time.”

_Yeah, probably._ Valence laughs, but the laugh when it’s directly in your head is less like hearing someone laugh and more like laughing yourself. 

Broun stands and wipes dirt on their trousers, “Come on.” They extend a hand, remember that Valence is but a cloud, and play it off as whipping more dirt off their hands like you would shake off water without a towel. 

Valence swirls around Broun like a halo as they sleuth carefully around the next few corners, not a word said between them for several hallways.

Until they hear shouting. _Shit._

There is a clamor before them, and Broun spins on their heel and sees another light coming from the other end of the hall. Cornered. Fuck. 

Broun wishes, briefly, that their hair was not tied back in such elaborate braids so they could be pulling at it, right now. 

_Broun. What do we do?_

Broun whispers, “Wait. Stop-” their breathing is shaky, “Wait, I’m so. I don’t-” and then they realize, their breath is shaky. Their breath.

“Valence-”

_Yeah, that might work._

Broun runs their hand over their braids, feeling the crunch of whatever hair gel Millie had used to secure them, and wishing again to pull at something. They steady themselves, despite the voices coming closer. 

Exhaling the last of your breath goes like this: You feel your chest move lower, you feel your stomach tense close though it has very little to do with the whole ordeal, you imagine the bits inside you that are used to being inflated collapsing upon themselves. Deflated is such a perfect-sounding word for what it means. It doesn’t hurt, really, it just feels empty. Maybe empty is a kind of hurt.

Broun flaps their hands impatiently, holding the lack of breath, gesturing for Valence. When the purple of their body comes to Broun’s lips, it feels like something they ought to be allergic to- spicy, tingling, and spreading like wildfire. Broun opens their mouth with the most controlled inhale they can manage. Against their best intentions, it still is mostly a gasp.  
Valence is hidden just in the nick of time, guards rounding the corner and breezing quickly past Broun without a glance. It’s the kind of scene that would make you go _phew_ and wipe the beads of sweat from your brow, if it weren’t for the swirl effect of an alien inside of you.

 _Hey, I heard that!_

Broun can’t help the punched-out laugh that follows, a negligible amount of smoke coming out in the act. 

_Valence!_

_I know, I know. Sorry._ Valence’s telepathic voice does not sound very sorry. _Keep going, you’re almost through._

And they’re right, the rendezvous point was only outside the garden. Maybe a 2-minute walk? Broun thinks for a minute about competitions to hold their breath underwater- winning them being a huge point of pride, of course, for any child. They can do this.

One step after another, Broun walks across the garden. There are people here, loads of people. “The garden is a perfect getaway point!” They had been told, “By the time the banquet is really going, everyone will have gone inside!”

Broun was going to kill their informant. 

The expanse of flora seems to grow longer with every step they take, the gardenias laughing at the pair of thieves bowing out before they had even properly earned the title this time. Focus. Broun. Come on, focus. 

_What’s it-_ Broun looks at the passersby in the garden; one small woman in an incredibly large hat, three businessmen presenting a bejeweled necklace to an ordinary lovebird, two armed guards straight out of Scooby Doo. They see the getaway car now and it’s a real effort not to run to the truck parked unassumingly amongst the gardening staff supplies. They know Thisbe is waiting patiently. 

_Yes?_

_What is- No. Forget it, you forget it. I forgot what I was going to ask._

_It’s weird, sure._

God. God! 

_I don’t know what you’re talking about, Valence._ Broun lies.

_It’s kind of warm? I don’t really experience a lot of touch. It’s hard to tell._

Broun squeezes their eyes shut. Grabs the cheap velvet of their cape, and balls their fingers up in it. Their lungs are starting to burn. Halfway there. 

_It’s hard to tell._ Broun replies humorlessly. 

_Yeah._

Broun shakes the cape out of their hands and decides that they’re carrying little enough that it would not matter if they sped up toward the gate. They focus intently on the curve of the steel, the decorative ends capped with fine, glittering glass. They train their eyes toward the handle, imagining the way it would resist a bit before opening. Old gates were always like that. Thinking mostly, of course, about how incredibly _not_ enhanced it was. Just a good, old-fashioned gate. These architects with the thought to design small, intimate crevices but not a consideration toward security. What absolute fucking morons.

Broun’s hand finally- finally- curls around the handle, and it hesitates and gives just the way they knew it would. It’s the kind of moment where you would let out a sigh of relief, if there were not a cloud in your lungs. 

It’s a quick sprint to the van, and when the door finally opens and Thisbe intones, “Operant Broun, where is Valence?” At the same time that the alien themself speaks directly into Broun’s mind _It’s like, I’m not wet. I feel like I should be wet?_

Broun laughs and laughs, their friend spilling out with the sound.


End file.
